


Honeymoon

by canis_m



Category: Fables - Willingham
Genre: Doggy Style, F/M, Married Sex, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-07
Updated: 2011-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_m/pseuds/canis_m
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little more perfume, Mrs. Wolf?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honeymoon

They leave France for Baden-Württemberg and a cottage in the Black Forest chosen by his bride. It's a puzzle to Bigby, since the forest doesn't hold a pine cone to the wildernesses of Russia or North America--too hemmed in for too long by too many humans. He'd thought another weekend in the City of Light would be more Snow's style. If it's woods she wants, the States would be better, or Canada, or pretty much anywhere (except Alaska, which still smells like empty bottles of Scotch and a woman who isn't his wife). 

At the moment his wife doesn't smell much like his wife, come to that. He bought her that perfume she wanted in Paris, eau d'whatever, happy to indulge, and now she's gone and sprayed it on thick as cat piss. To go _hiking._ In the Black Forest. At night. Or wolfback riding, rather, since she doesn't have night vision like he does, and he's not about to let the mother of his cubs fall down the damned mountain in the dark.

"The falls are supposed to be pretty by moonlight," she says from her perch on his back. "Romantic."

Bigby muffles a sneeze that could've flattened a few hectares of Schwarzwald if he'd let it blow.

"Gesundheit," says his wife. 

He stops to swipe at his muzzle with one paw. Of all the stinking--what'd she do, roll in it? "Do me a favor, sweetheart, when we get to the waterfall? Hop in and wash that stuff off."

At least she doesn't play dumb. Much. "You don't care for it?"

"I'm sure it's swell, but it's doing a number on my nose."

With a terse sigh she sidles down from his back, not bothering to wait for the waterfall, and makes her way to the edge of the stream they've been following upslope. In the moonlight she kneels, rinses her pale wrists, splashes water over the pulse points at her throat, and wipes her hands on her sleeves before returning to Bigby's side. He crouches, belly flat to the earth, to let her climb on his back again, but instead of remounting she leans into the thick of his ruff and draws him upright, stepping along like a girl on the arm of her beau. 

"I guess I overdid it," she says, as they start up the path. The perfume still clings to her, but the worst of it's gone, and Bigby's nose begins to sort out pure Snow from the muck. 

"Overdid what?" 

She reaches up to tap him on the snout. "Bamboozling your nose."

He huffs--not quite puffing--and peers down at her. "What d'you want to bamboozle it for?"

"I was trying for a little mystery." There's something peculiar in her scent, something niggling, tangled in the trails of perfume, but it's not anger, so Bigby pads along patiently and takes another whiff. Her lips twist as she eyes him sidelong. "Or a level playing field, ever think of that? How fair is it that you can sniff out _my_ mood just by breathing, when I have to use my wits to figure out yours?"

"Ma'am," he says, with all the gravitas a lolling tongue can give, "I'm a simple wolf. No detective work required. And if it's _mood_ mood you're talking about, that's even--"

\--simpler, he's about to say, when the peculiar line of scent resolves itself. He stops again in his tracks. Snow stops with him, head tilted, meeting his stare cool as you please, and if you had to go by looks alone you'd never have a clue. How any woman so cool could smell so--hot _damn_. He sucks in another drag, not as much for confirmation as from greed. 

"You _like_ me like this," he says. _Like_ in the carnal sense.

She flushes--even at night in the Black Forest, when Snow turns red it's hard to miss--but doesn't let go of his ruff. If anything her fingers dig deeper. "Is that news? I didn't only marry the version that wore the tux."

Bigby chews on that for a while, like a pup with a really satisfying bone. She's right that it isn't news, but her readiness to own it is. And no, the twitch in his tail isn't the onset of a wag, it's just--just--a readjustment. He readjusts back and forth a few times. "Well, I'll be. It's the fur, isn't it. Women are crazy about fur."

"I'd rather have you than a coat, if that's what you mean."

All right, so maybe he is wagging. Times like these a wag speaks louder than words, anyway. Louder, and more gentlemanly than _babe, you smell like a bitch in heat,_ which (however heartfelt) isn't the kind of sweet nothing his lady would be pleased to hear. Yet. Maybe she's trainable. Maybe he's panting. Her scent's going to his head and straight to points south from there. 

"How crushed would you be," she says, stroking his muzzle, "if we skipped the falls tonight?"

He's never carried her down a mountain so fast in his life. He's pretty sure she's never clung so tightly to him, either, or gripped his barrel so thoroughly with her thighs. By the time they reach the cabin he's panting for real, and it isn't from exertion. While she disappears into the powder room he prowls around the bed, trying not to snag the carpet with his claws. After a few minutes of shower noise she reemerges, wearing a silver robe--a slinky little number courtesy of Paris--and no smells but her own. Bigby hardly notices how low his tongue's hanging until she sashays over and cups a hand under his chin. 

She rakes him from head to tail with her eyes. "I'm not sure about this." There's a tiny smile on her lips, like she's trying to drive him crazy. "You are awfully big."

"Who, me? It's mostly hair. Optical illusion. But we'll take it nice and easy, how about that?"

It occurs to Bigby some time later--when Snow is snarling under him, throbbing around him, crouched on her hands and knees on the bed--that maybe he should've mentioned about getting tied.

"Damn you," she growls, baring glorious teeth over her shoulder, "you _said_ there'd be no trouble."

"Is this trouble?" It doesn't feel like trouble to his cock, but he shifts his forepaws to make sure he's not squashing her. "I'm not hurting you, am I?"

"No, but--how long does this _last?_ "

"Oh, no more than a day or two," he lies, grinning.

She curses his hide.


End file.
